The Rest of the Story
by Sendai
Summary: Pirate AU set during the Napoleonic war in the Caribbean. The story was prompted by Hades Lord of the Dead in her DecemberCalendar ChallengeofAwesomeness. The prologue was published in this community. See story within. Sherlock and John are friends (more if you squint). Posting Chapter3 (finally).
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **

**This is a Sherlock/pirate AU set during the Napoleonic Wars in the Caribbean. Rated M for violence and because I want to be careful.**

**This story began its life after a prompt, which was _Pirate AU_, from Hades Lord of the Dead, in the December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness. The very short prologue for The Rest of the Story is entitled One or the Other and it is published as chapter 18 of Deck the Halls with Awesome Challenges within the community of December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness. I shall attempt to publish the URLs at the end.**

**An longer explanation explaining why I split this story in twain.**

**The stories in the Challenge are all rated K-T, and One or the Other is only K+.**

**However, I got carried away (I'm sorry but _PIRATES_!) and wrote a longer fic that might need an M rating for violence.**

**Therefore I am posting the rest of the story with an M rating.**

**Feel free to imagine Holmes and Watson as portrayed in ACD's Sherlock Holmes Canon, in the BBC's Sherlock or by RDJ and JL or whoever you like (Isn't that the beauty of reading? We can supply bits of the stories with our own imaginations).**

**Anyway, I am publishing the rest of the story under the BBC Sherlock aegis because I miss my home…which is BBC Sherlock… obviously. Oddly enough the title for the rest of the story is The Rest of the Story. (Did you all see that one coming?) **

* * *

><p><strong>The story almost starts here. But, b<strong>**efore we get to ****The Rest of the Story****, here is the excerpt from the prologue **

**One or the Other**-an excerpt

_It had been a trap. _

_Only his brother, Mycroft, knew that Sherlock had been hired to purloin the papers, which would prove the governor's guilt. _

_Only his trusted friend, Doctor Watson had known the specifics of the plan._

_Clearly, one of them had betrayed him. It had to be one or the other._

_Logically, Mycroft had no motive to betray him; the bureaucrat needed the documents just as much as the buccaneer needed the money._

_That left John Watson…_

_Holmes had no regrets about the failed plan, but he did have a broken heart._

* * *

><p><strong>Rated M for violence and very oblique references to adult situations<strong>

**The Rest of the Story-A Pirate AU**

Captain Holmes realized that he must have fallen into a doze only when he was startled awake by the thunder of guns.

Guns.

Cannons.

The very words made his heart beat faster. And their distant roar made his heart thrill. He could almost smell the powder and the burning slow match in his imagination.

The pirate eagerly tried to peer out his tiny barred window. He could just make out some of the flashes reflecting off the clouds, followed closely by the echoing booms. He deduced from the sound of the echoes that the harbor was under fire from a single attacker who remained out at sea.

'_But who…'_ wondered the buccaneer, '_who would bombard the harbor while two frigates were lying at anchor, each ship armed with 28 long guns? Not to mention the threat from this fort, itself armed with 18 and 24 pounders.* It's suicide for a single ship to attack.'_

"Idiots."

'_Then too…there were those rumors of a ship of the line (probably the Indomitable), who supposedly hunted the sea lanes south of the island. If that ship _is_ out there, she'll be attracted to the cannonfire like a bear to honey.'_

Holmes could not imagine any captain risking his ship so foolishly. _He _would never risk The Hound so. He sat back on the hard stone bench, tucking his long legs underneath him.

He heard more guns now, meaning that the frigates now exchanged fire with the rogue ship.

He _hated_ not knowing what was going on! He tugged irritably at a strand of dark hair, which had escaped his plait.

At least he could be sure that his first mate, Lestrade would never risk The Hound in such a dangerous and futile venture.

'_No pirate worth his salt would attack without the promise of gain,"_ reasoned Holmes,_ "and there was no profit to be had in this idiotic attack. Gavin Lestrade is a true buccaneer and no fool. Ergo, The Hound is safe.'_

The pirate captain should have felt comforted by this thought. But he remained uneasy. He could think of _one_ man not driven by the promise of treasure, _one_ man who was foolhardy enough to attack an overwhelming force-and had done so before. Certainly, the gentleman in question had never done so with a ship under his command…at least not so far.

'_Now _Watson,' he thought with a grim smile, '_Now _John Watson_ would certainly think nothing of exercising his guns right under a ship of the line, if the doctor was riled up enough or motivated by his sense of honor. Certainly, Watson, while an excellent doctor, is sometimes not a very good pirate," _conceded the buccaneer privately._ "The doctor does not have a head for sea battles. He never seems to enjoy treasure like any other buccaneer. And John Watson is dangerously romantic and stupidly brave. I can very well imagine that he'd believe that firing on the harbor is somehow a clever way to rescue _someone_._'

The lanky captain scoffed at himself with bitter contempt.

'_But this is even more ludicrous than imaging that Lestrade possesses an altruistic side," the captain chided himself._

'_To begin with, how could Watson take over the command of the ship? He couldn't, obviously.'_

'_Besides, Watson is the one who put me here,'_ thought Holmes, shaking his head ever so slightly. "_The doctor will not be planning any reckless schemes to rescue me this time.'_

'In fact_, Watson is probably watching the bombardment,' _thought Holmes, holding a finger in front of his lips._ 'from the balcony of HER suite. He probably has a champagne glass in his hand. Possibly he has HER in hand as well.'_

The buccaneer growled low in his throat and punched the wall for good measure.

'_I was a fool! A fool! A thrice damned fool!_

'_How could I allow John Watson to consort with that wench again? …No. No, let me be honest- at least with myself,_' thought the captain, '_I didn't _allow_ it. I _ordered_ it! My doctor tried to refuse, but I ordered him to seduce Mary Morsten_._ He didn't want to see her ever again, he said. And I forced them together, so that Doctor Watson could distract that charming American spy, while I, in turn, could play counter spy and sneak into the governor's mansion.'_

'_I have no one to blame, except myself.'_

Watson, as always, had finally acquiesced to the buccaneer's demands. The doctor had spent the past week playing the besotted suitor-following Miss Morstan's skirts around the town, while wearing his own disingenuous smile-attending Morstan at the governor's mansion, right under the nose of Governor Fitzroger, under whose protection she lived.

But sadly, it looked like the seducer had been seduced.

"Of course he was seduced!" muttered Holmes softly. '_John Watson might have wooed the ladies on three separate continents, but at heart he's naïve, too innocent…and I set him up as the sacrificial lamb.'_

'_How? How could I have miscalculated so very badly!' _

He dropped back, his head hitting the wall in frustration.

'_Oh, there's no doubt that my doctor_ _began with the most honorable of dishonorable intentions. He undertook his mission, intending to aid me. But like the serpent in the Garden, SHE seduced my doctor with her wit, her charm…her sweet-scented beauty. Undoubtedly, she offered her body as a reward. How could Watson resist? She promised her undying love to the poor romantic fool.'_

'_BAH! I wouldn't put it past her to have offered him a private medical practice and a clapboard house with a white picket fence in some new world outpost like Boston or Philadelphia.'_

'_And all John Watson had to do to earn this irresistible bounty was tell Miss Morstan when and where to find_ me.'

His lonely cell shook with thunder. Apparently, the laggards manning the fort had finally awoken, and now retuned fire against the attacker. Another boom resonated throughout the empty dungeon.

Unquestionably, the deadly 24 pounders were now in play.

'_I pity the poor fools aboard that ship'_

_"Idiots."_

Captain Holmes sat, alone and miserable, on the edge of the moldy stone bench that served as his cot. He sank his elbows onto his knees, while resting his head in his hands.

Indeed, his hanging in the town square on the morrow would be a relief, ending the pathetic agony he felt at his betrayal. If nothing else it would finally stop the unhelpful ponderings of his over-active mind.

He heard the slow uneven tread of boots, and just once, the jangling of keys. It sounded as though a new guard was doing the rounds. This soldier favored one of his legs, yet managed the stairs easily enough…so an old, albeit uncomfortable injury, Holmes deduced.

Usually, the soldiers ventured down to the empty dungeon on the quarter hour, so this new guard was coming a few minutes early.

Perhaps the guard had been sent to ensure that the Scourge of the West Indies was still safely ensconced in his cell.

'_Or maybe the guard is on his way here to taunt me like the other soldiers, tossing insults and rocks.' _

"Dull," he muttered. "They're all idiots."

Holmes did not even bother to raise his head.

"Sorry to bother you, Captain. I can see you're very busy. I suppose you're solving some really interesting, important puzzle. But, I was _thinking_ that if you'd be willing to move your bloody arse, maybe we could see about getting you some better accommodations," said John Watson lightly. "Something with less rats and a better view perhaps.

Holmes was stunned into silence. '_How? How is Watson here? How did I miscalculate so very badly, not once but twice? And how could I mistake the sound of HIS tread for anyone aside from HIM? And how could I have ever misdoubted the loyalty of John Watson?'_

"Captain?" said Doctor Watson, observing the pirate's stunned silence and his assortment of bruises with concern. "Are you hurt? Did they…"

"No…no I'm fine," said Holmes finally. "Indeed, it seems that I'm in better shape than you."

Watson sported a black eye, a cut over his temple and scraped knuckles on both hands. Holmes also noted that his friend had lost his third best coat and his father's pocket watch. Furthermore, Watson's best shirt was also torn and stained beyond repair. Watson was sure to bring this up sometime in the future…

"Nonsense. I just have a couple of scraps. Some soldiers got in my way you see and so… I had to remove them…" he trailed off to grin wolfishly.

_'The idiot.'_

Captain Holmes slowly realized that he too was grinning a bit foolishly. However, he didn't much care, such was his relief at the return of his one true and loyal friend.

"Still, I'm sorry if I'm a bit late," continued Watson, "but unfortunately, I was all tied up…quite literally."

"Mary?"

"Mary," agreed Watson with a wry twist of his mouth. "One minute we were having a lovely tea for two, then the next thing I know, she was going on about how I needed to stay in protective custody…for m'own good, mind you," said John as he finally tried the first key on the ring.

"To put it bluntly," said the doctor, pursing his lips in concentration, "she had the guards chain me up and lock me in her bloody dressing room. Stunk of her perfume, that strong, sickly-sweet stuff she calls Clair de La Lune."

"Yes, but tell me, however did you get free of the chains?" asked Holmes, "Oh and Watson, try that key, the brass one," he ordered, pointing a long, pale finger.

"I did; I tried that key already. And as far as my escape goes... it was the strangest thing. The guards came in, and served me tea and cake, which was odd, in and of its self." Watson's hands paused, and his forehead wrinkled gravely, "I wondered, 'why the devil would they serve me tea not two hours after I'd just had tea?' I mean, how uncivilized is that?" The doctor frowned as if he'd just foreseen the imminent collapse of civilization or perhaps he was glaring at the uncooperative ring of keys. "Well," he said, returning to his task of trying to unlock the gaol door, "believe it or not, there was a _key_ hidden in my cake."

"Mycroft!" said Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft had not entirely abandoned his brother after all. It was becoming a night of revelations.

"Maybe so, seems like a thing he'd do. But, I tell you this, I almost broke a tooth on the damn thing," grumbled Watson. "Anyway, I finished my tea, which was uncommon good, even if served out of turn, and I unlocked the chains. Then I snuck quiet as a mouse, unobserved mind you, into Miss Morstan's bedchamber. You would have been impressed at how stealthily I moved Holmes."

Holmes smirked proudly, and Watson beamed.

"So then I tied _her_ up," continued the doctor, "putting her gently but firmly into her convenient armoire. She would have made some complaint, but however, I had placed a scarf over her mouth. I think she is angry with me, because she bit me hard enough to draw blood, before I got that gag fastened properly."

The doctor pushed up one of his sleeves to display the angry, red bite mark.

"I am concerned to see that, Watson. Now, do try the big brass ring with the scorching all over it."

"And I tell you, I _did_ try it….Howsomever, after taking leave of Miss Morstan, I climbed down her balcony, once again stealthy as any cat, and made my way down to the harbor. Luckily, Old Digger was lurking about outside that rotgut tavern, just like he was supposed to be. I told him that you'd been captured, and that I could certainly get you out, but that I needed the Hound to make a wee little distraction with her great big guns. And so they are; those guns are a marvelous distraction, aren't they?"

Ah, so it _was_ The Hound sitting in the offing. Just waiting to be shot at by the fort's 24 pounders. And of course it had been Watson's idea all along, the idiot.

"Idiot! You risked The Hound just for…"

"Just for you? Yes! And I'd do it again," said Watson, sticking his chin out belligerently. "And I checked, it wasn't so much of a risk…"

"She'll be blown out of the water, you inept, foolish…" Holmes sputtered, torn between fear and anger for his ship and pride and affection for his brave yet foolish doctor. "You know nothing of naval combat nor of cannons and even less about sailing…"

"No, but they said she'd be mostly out of range and anyway she's to go sailing off any minute now…"

"They told you? _They who_?" demanded Holmes suspicion narrowing his eyes.

"Old Digger, of course. And also Miss Hooper said…"

"A drunkard and a serving wench? You risked _my_ Hound on the say-so of a drunkard and a wench?"

"You are repeating yourself, Holmes," answered Watson severely. "And I relied on a former _Commodore_ and a seasoned _smuggler,_ who pilots her own ship, as you well know. _And_ they were the only two I could trust, without going back to the ship, which there wasn't time to go back to the ship."

The good doctored huffed loudly. "And they…we…Well, clearly we must've been right, because Lestrade, who you always say is a great sailor and a not bad gunner, which coming from you means a lot so…Um…Um so, so Lestrade must have agreed with me or us, I mean, or else he wouldn't be bombarding the harbor, now would he?" finished Watson, who angrily shook the keys at the buccaneer.

Then the doctor stared with wide blue eyes at the keys in his hand, before blurting out, "Now I've forgotten which key I was on!" He ran his free hand through his unfashionably short blond spikes in frustration.

"You risked my ship on this venture, but couldn't be bothered to ensure you have the right keys," asserted Holmes, his temper sharpened by his concern for his ship and for his doctor, who would be shot for a traitor if caught or even hung for a pirate.

"Oh, these are the right keys," muttered the doctor, who methodically tried another key. "I borrowed 'em from the guard, after he decided to take a nap ,after I hit him. It's one of these keys…."

"You already tried that key! Try the brass one with the scorch marks!" demanded Holmes, leaning forward; his fists clenched on the bars, as his ships surgeon obstinately tried each key again. That man was maddening at times.

The pirate glanced up the stairs as a horrible idea came to mind, "Watson, you traipsed all over town before you came here…Were you followed?"

"I don't see how," snapped Watson, who was becoming irritable in turn. "I told you I was amazingly stealthy. I sometimes think you don't listen to me."

"You are certainly amazing," said the pirate captain.

"_What's_ that? Is that sarcasm?" asked Watson, finally trying the brass key that had the odd scorching on it.

"Aha!" said John as the key turned the pins.

"I told you that was the correct key," said Holmes smugly.

Captain Holmes threw his watch coat over his shoulders and stepped imperiously out of his erstwhile gaol. Then he grasped his rescuer's shoulder and added, "It was not sarcasm. You are an amazingly determined, stubborn, and brave man…"

"I'm not stubborn."

"And I am constantly amazed that you are my friend," added the buccaneer.

"Oh…"

"And now, perhaps we should endeavor to flee?" asked Holmes with a smirk.

"Yes. Right," said Watson, leading the way, with barely a hint of his limp showing.

Holmes followed, and he silently berated himself for not recognizing Watson's distinctive step earlier, for falling prey to distracting sentiment and especially for doubting his amazing and loyal friend in the first place.

As they started up the stairs, Watson murmured quietly, "Hopefully, most of the soldiers will be busy lining the walls to watch the fireworks or marching to the harbor to repel the imaginary attack by hordes of pirate scum."

"Hopefully," agreed the tall buccaneer.

"I do like it when a plan comes together," said the doctor, rubbing his capable hands together.

"Well, don't get overconfident," said the pirate, with an amused twitch of his lips. "We're not safe yet."

Then the tall, dark-haired buccaneer slowed his steps, "I wonder…I suppose there's no point returning to the governor's mansion?"

They both advanced slowly now, side-stepping a tied-up, semi-conscious guard, who cringed at the sight of the good doctor. Holmes stopped altogether, frowning at the bonds.

"Watson, what kind of a knots are these?" asked Holmes staring at the ropes tied around the soldier.

"Why…they're a surgical knots, of course. And they seem to be holding just fine," exclaimed Watson defensively.

Then he quickly changed the subject, "Come on. We go this way," said the doctor. He chose the starboard passageway.

They passed through an dark, empty guardroom, lit from the main doorway by a bonfire, which had been set in the middle of the vacant parade ground.

The quiet was broken by a grunting noise coming from the dark corner. Ah, the room was not _quite_ empty, observed the pirate. It was occupied by a fuming, little officer with a bandana tied round his redcoated officer struggled in vain to escape the ropes, which tied him to a chair. His bonds too, appeared to feature more of Watson's unorthodox knots.

The Scourge of the West wisely refrained from mentioning the un-nautical knots a second time. The good doctor was known to be particular and even a bit testy when challenged in his practice of medicine, and surgical knots plainly fell under the bailiwick of medical practice.

Outside the door, came the sounds of tramping boots and the occasional clink of metal. Holmes and Watson stood in the shadows, watching cautiously as soldiers quick-marched across the quad, driven by a hoarse-voiced sergeant.

"It really will _not_ be safe to return to the mansion," announced Watson, returning to the captain's earlier comment, but only after the parade ground was quiet again. "The place'll be swarming with guards, and I do not relish having to rescue you a second time."

Holmes snorted. He did not intend to require a rescue anytime in the near future. "Not to worry, Doctor. I've given the matter some thought, and I'm sure the incriminating documents have already been destroyed, or at least moved to a safe location. There is no reason to return."

"Good," said Watson emphatically, "because I'm sure Mary will be on the warpath."

"Mary? You call her...Mary?"

"Yesss. Of course," said the doctor. Despite the shadows, he saw his captain's frown, "I had to! _You _told me to woo her! You told me to _seduce_ her and distract her…"

"Well, you must be losing your touch, doctor. She wasn't very distracted, was she? Not if she still found out I was coming to the mansion?" sniped the Scourge of the West Indies.

"I hope you are not implying that she found it out from me! Because I never told her anything, nor did you ever tell me your plans even if I'd wanted to tell her, which I did not," said Watson emphatically.

"I never once doubted your loyalty," lied Holmes stiffly.

"Good," snapped Watson, "And I really don't know why you're complaining about me and Mary in the first place. I never wanted to pretend affection for her. I only did exactly what you told me to do. And I did the very best I could, short of bedding her!" snapped Watson.

"Well, why did you stop there? You're the famous Three Continents Watson!" snarled Holmes, who was inexplicably angry over the whole tawdry affair.

"_That_ was years ago! Things are different now!" sputtered John Watson. "And I thought this was supposed to be an escape, not a scene out of Tom Jones!"

"So _that's _what this is! _An escape!" _said a gravelly voice, dripping with venom. "And here I thought it was a romance. At least it explains why you are not where you're supposed to be, either one of you!" said a tall, broad shouldered officer, who leaned against the door to the dungeons. "I did wonder, Doctor. I was concerned when you were not waiting for me. But when I realized you'd vanished, I correctly assumed you'd end up here, back at your master's beck and call," he tsk'ed mockingly. "Miss Morstan will be so disappointed… By the way, whatever did you do with her? The governor was in quite a taking with her disappearance.

Watson pressed his lips together angrily and clenched his fists as he scanned the room, probably looking for a weapon.

Holmes had gone all over ice at the thought of his particular friend, his good, loyal, brave friend who'd been left in chains to suffer the ministrations of that infamous butcher, Moran. Just the thought of what Moran had intended to do to Watson was enough to set Holmes seething, like half frozen water churning between ice floes. His eyes glittered, and he smiled coldly.

"Colonel Moran!" said Holmes. "I've heard so much about you." The pirate captain slowly reached to his side for a sword, which leant against the wall. Perhaps the sword belonged to the trussed-up officer, who'd gone still and silent in the face of imminent violence.

Holmes arm snatched at the sabre, but he was not fast enough.

Moran darted forward and sliced his blade down; it would have taken off the pirate captain's arm, but Watson was there first, using a ramrod to block the sword.

Moran shoved the Holmes to the floor, then strode forward, his blade falling like lightening bolts against the ramrod. Watson held the metal shaft aloft with both hands, as he was driven backwards step by step. With each stroke, the blade danced across the rod and sparks flew up, lighting up their faces-Moran's face was fierce and hungry-Watson's wore a fixed half-snarling grin.

Then the Colonel's sword slipped past the doctor's defenses; the blade sliceing Watson's thigh before he could retreat.

The doctor cried out and loosened the grip on his staff. Amid more sparks, the steel blade drove the ramrod out of this hands; it flew to the floor with a resounding clang.

The ship's surgeon was trapped against the wall. Clutching his leg, he slowly began to slide down the stones, helpless before his smiling foe.

With a savage grin, the colonel delivered the coup de grace, only to be blocked again.

Moran roared with frustrated bloodlust, when his blade locked with the sword held by Holmes. The lithe buccaneer pushed in between the predator and his prey. Holmes stood over his fallen companion, and his arm shook with the effort of repulsing the colonel's brutal strength.

With all his might, the pirate finally heaved the colonel and his sword back, driving the officer away from the wounded doctor. Ashen faced, the surgeon sagged down to the floor, collapsing sideways into a baskets full of bottles and refuse. Bottles clattered and rolled across the floor and the doctor lay as if dead.

Captain Holmes parried each of the colonel's attacks, and the room rang with sword song. Moran's assault depended more on brute force than on finesse, so it was not an elegant battle, but it was a dangerously exhausting one for the lanky buccaneer. Holmes quickly began to tire, as he parried again and yet again against the onslaught, looking for a weakness, an opening.

He stumbled.

And then a bottle came flying and struck Moran's head. The colonel backed off, stunned, a baffled bull shaking his great head.

Holmes raised his sword.

Another bottle followed, striking the big soldier right between his eyes with a hollow-sounding clunk. The colonel sank to his knees, and his blade dropped to the floor, ringing like a bell.

Dripping with sweat, his arm trembling, Holmes turned to see his best friend stumble forward with a jug. Watson raised the clay vessel with both hands and brought it down on the officer's head. Moran fell unconscious to the floor. The jug was tossed to the floor and shattered.

"I never did like him... the nasty creature," muttered Watson, as he tottered, groping blinding for support.

"Idiot!" shouted the pirate captain, gripping one of the doctor's arms. "Stop moving, and let me see your wound," snapped Holmes. He bent down and to rip open the blood soaked gash in Watson's breeches, revealing the bloody wound.

"Hey! Those were my best breeches!" protested the doctor.

"It's deep. It's bleeding," said Holmes.

"You know? I just don't understand," murmured Watson staring at his leg, "Why is it always my leg?"

"Dammit, Watson! Snap out of it. Tell me what to do! A bandage or…or…what?" demanded Holmes, fumbling in his pockets for a rag or bandana.

"Umm, um, I'm bleeding… It's a sword wound," verified the surgeon, who had years of battlefield and shipboard experience and recognized a wound when he saw one.

Holmes made a noise of disgust and grabbed both of the pallid doctor's arms, "Watson, look at me, and CON-CEN-TRATE! What DO WE DO about it?"

"Um. Umm, since it's bleeding? Um… we should put on… a tourniquet of course," said Watson, gathering his scattered wits, "It's not...not all that deep, but needs stitches..."

"We don't have time to put in stitches right now, Watson," said Holmes, gathering supplies quickly.

"Oh no, o'course not," muttered the doctor. "Um, just a bandage then…yes, a very tight, compressive bandage."

"Sit!" ordered the captain, as he shoved the injured man into a chair. "And don't faint!"

"Aye, Sir," said the ship's surgeon weakly.

"And don't even think about dying on me, Watson!"

"No, Captain," whispered Watson, attempting to smile but only managing a grimace.

He blanched further as the pain finally really began to register, and he bit his fist to keep from crying out. Then the captain began to apply his rough version of first aid, and things got very bad for a while.

**TBC**

* * *

><p><strong>AN** Thank you for making it past the really long explanations at the beginning and for reading The Rest of the Story (well, the first part of The Rest of the Story).

Reviews are treasured.

*******Nautical or Archaic Terms**

**18 and 24 pounders**-refers to cannons, also called long guns. The 18 pounder shoots... 18 pound cannon balls (Surprise, right?). Obviously, the bigger the ball, the bigger the cannon, the farther it shoots and the greater the damage. Small boats and ships could not carry very large guns due to the weight of the cannon and damage from the recoil. I am not sure if a fort might not have even bigger guns than 24 pounders, (say 32 pounders), but Googling could only take me so far and I didn't have time to re-read the entire Naval Series about Aubry and Maturin by the great Patrick O'Brien which has taught me what little I know about the British Navy during the Napoleonic wars (Please note, I only learned a little because of my limitations. The books themselves are treasure trove of history). (I also lied, I learned a lot about this time period from C.S. Forester's Hornblower novels)

**Protection**- at the turn of the 1800's, a woman under a man's protection was understood to be his mistress.

**Disclaimer**-Guess what. I do not own any rights to ACD's Sherlock Holmes, BCC's SHERLOCK or any of their characters. Oddly enough, I also make no profit off of my fanfic entries. :D

**Addresses for December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness and One or the Other **do not want to print

So if you want to read the Whole Challenge (which you should, because it's full of great fics by great authors...I don't mean me. I mean the other authors :D) go to fanfics Communities, select Books, then select Sherlock Holmes.

If you want to read the whole ( but very short prologue One or the Other) then go to my profile (which my name is sendai, right?) and One or the Other is chapter 18 under Deck the Halls with Awesome Challenges.


	2. Chapter 2

**Rated M just in case (mild violence and swearing)**

**Chapter 2 More of the Rest of the Story**

Holmes moved purposefully through the town. Although he preferred to operate at sea, the tall pirate knew this town like the back of his hand. He knew every street, every alley. He knew where the lamps were lit and where the shadows were deepest.

The captain kept a firm grip on his companion's arm to provide much needed but entirely unwelcome support. Despite his pallor and his poorly hidden grimaces of pain, Watson kept moving forward with his typical bullheaded determination, leaning heavily on a cane, which the buccaneer had borrowed from a Dutchman flying three sheets to the wind.

And in spite of Watson's initial protests, the doctor wore the captain's rather too large watch coat over his own torn and bloody garments.

Initially, Holmes had argued that the injured and shaking physician obviously needed the coat more than did the Scourge of the West Indies. He had argued this in vain.

Then the piratical genius had changed tactics, he had cleverly pointed out that the long coat would hide the bloody dressings, which covered most of the doctor's thigh, thus improving their chances of escaping successfully.

Watson finally succumbed to Holmes's superior logic with good grace, wearing the warm coat and only occasionally complaining about the too long sleeves or the hem of the coat…"which hovers around my ankles like a bloody trap. And it looks stupid. No, I know it looks stupid, like I was some boy barely breeched, who's gone and taken his father's greatcoat. And I saw that, Holmes. Don't you dare smile! Don't you dare!" and "Did you see that, Captain? Your great, bloody coat keeps tripping me up. It's going to be the death of me; I've always known you'd be the death of me, Holmes, but I little suspected that your coat would be the actual instrument of my demise…"

From the corner of his eye, Holmes watched Watson struggle to navigate the ruts in High Street, while muttering about the deadly coat.

The captain subtly shifted his hand to grip underneath the wounded man's arm, so that he could more easily support Watson when he stumbled. Watson noticed the shift and grumbled louder, saying ungentlemanly things under his breath, which the pirate captain studiously ignored.

It was now impossible, of course, for them to make their scheduled rendezvous with The Hound at the mouth of Skip Rock Creek. That site was located several miles to the east and was accessible only by a long trek through thick jungle. But with the doctor's wound, the rendezvous might as well have been half-a-world away. Doctor Watson would be lucky to make it to the harbor at this rate.

And it was to the harbor they must go. Holmes planned to obtain a small boat to ferry his friend, his particular friend, to safety. There were many fishing boats to choose from, preferably they he could borrow one with a single mast.

The old wharf had the additional benefit of being deserted at night; plus, it was close to the mouth of the harbor and _not_ too close to the frigates anchored in the middle of the bay.

"You should just leave me," hissed Watson. "I'm slowing you down too much."

"My dear Watson, did you injure your head in one of your brawls tonight?" asked Holmes, solicitously

"I'm serious. You could leave me at the tavern and then make your escape…"

"You must have damaged your brain, if you think that I would ever abandon my one true friend under any circumstances. My one true friend, whose _loyalty I would never doubt_, not even for a moment!"

Normally, the captain did not repeat himself, because repetition was a waste of time and incredibly dull. However, Holmes had found it necessary to repeatedly tell Watson that he had never doubted the doctor's faithfulness, not for a moment.

"But I do think that you could leave me temporarily," began the stubborn physician. "Then you could send for me later."

"You are delirious. You insult me, by suggesting that I would leave you wounded and in danger. You insult me by…"

"All right. All right. I'm sorry," apologized the doctor. "I just wanted to help."

"You can help by shutting up; there is a checkpoint up ahead," murmured the buccaneer bending to reach Watson's ear.

Holmes veered hard aport, to avoid the redcoats, who had set up a barricade in front of Mrs. Turner's Milliners. Only the captain's firm grip on the shorter man, kept Watson from over-setting with the abrupt course change.

"Was that strictly necessary?" hissed Watson, when they reached the relative safety of a dark alley. He clung rather desperately to the captain in an effort to remain upright.

"Only necessary if we wish to avoid re-capture, dear Doctor," said Holmes. "It is not my fault that your distraction stirred up the anthill in the first place."

"My_ distraction?_… My distraction emptied the fort, so that I could get _you_ out of gaol," said Watson, releasing Holmes's shirt and leaning against the squalid wall of the public house.

"Yes, and the fort's soldiers fled the fort only to fill the streets, Watson," explained the buccaneer. Holmes crept to the end of the alley to peer into the next street. This road, boasted only a few, mostly small lamps. He returned to his suffering friend "And all these soldiers mean that frequent course corrections might very well be necessary."

"Well," snapped the doctor, "at least warn me next time, perhaps you could call out 'hard abaft the portside beam' when next you change course."

Holmes stared with wide eyes at his doctor, attempting to decipher Watson's inexplicable gibberish. "What can you mean, my dear doctor?"

"Oh come now, Captain Holmes," said Watson smirking. "D'you think I haven't picked up some of your sea jargon after all this time?"

"But it made no sense."

"Of course it did. You say things like that all the time!" said Watson in all seriousness.

The captain suppressed a grin and nodded gravely, "Yes, I suppose I do say _something_ like that…at times."

"Well, are we going to weigh anchor or what?" asked Watson, successfully utilizing a seagoing phrase..

"Indeed," said Holmes, his lip twitching ever so slightly. "We shall endeavor to _make way_ down Cooper's Lane. I doubt we pass by all the watches and checkpoints un-challenged. When accosted, you will pretend to be overcome with drink and I will be your loyal friend in act and in fact. I, your most devoted friend, who never doubts your friendship and faithfulness for a moment, will be escorting back to your berth."

"Yes," nodded Watson, his forehead wrinkled in thought.

"To provide realism, naturally I shall have to support you," continued the buccaneer.

The doctor narrowed his eyes and curled his lip upwards, "I do_ not _require any assistance aside from this blasted cane."

"I _will_ support you in order to make our ruse believable," asserted the captain. "Consider it an order."

Watson's eyes narrowed further. Watson disliked when Holmes pulled rank on him off ship.

"Yes…_Sir_," said Watson, as if the very words left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Oh come along, doctor, the sooner we're at sea the better we'll both feel."

"Maybe _you'll_ feel better," muttered Watson. The rest of his complaint was cut off as he struggled to bear weight on his injured limb. He barely muttered when Holmes took his arm, leading him into Cooper's lane.

* * *

><p>As they made their slow, weaving way toward the water's edge, they saw quite clearly how the anthill had been stirred up by the earlier cannonade. Indeed the ants swarmed in all directions.<p>

Soldiers rushed about in the dark, shouting, "Who goes there!" or "What's the password?"

"There isn't any password," the captain muttered in Watson's ear. "The idiots!"

Watson grinned back fiercely, in spite of his gritted teeth.

Under a few scattered lanterns, townsfolk gathered to pass on rumors of pillaging pirates OR possibly the long awaited French invasion OR maybe the local soldiers had all gone amok raping and looting... so that no woman was safe, said the women congregating on the streets.

No one was quite sure what the truth was, except that it was a dark and dangerous night, and no good would come of this for anyone. For sooth, it was cause for concern and endless discussion.

"They are as witless as a boobies," Holmes murmured, trying to buoy Watson's sinking spirits. The doctor, flashed his friend a smile in a face as white as new drawn sails.

The watch had stopped them only once, and, thinking them a pair of drunken merchantmen, had only ordered them to return to their ship forthwith.

Stumbling awkwardly over wooden planks, which had been laid down across the muddy street, Doctor Watson put too much weight on his leg. He gasped and ducked his head down to his shoulder, to hide his grimace of pain.

Now the pirate captain grit his teeth. Watching his friend suffer was becoming intolerable. Once more he wondered why he hadn't obliterated that colonel, and yet again he promised himself revenge on everyone who was responsible for Watson's injuries. And make no mistake; the captain had not forgotten Watson's black eye or that cut on his head either. There would be payback, swore the Scourge of the West Indies, dreadful payback…

Watson swayed alarmingly, leaning heavily against the buccaneer.

"Come now, Watson," said The Scourge softly. "We'll stop here just for moment. You can sit on this convenient bench and…"

"Stop it!" demanded Watson harshly, even as he sat heavily on the bench outside a dark tavern. "Stop coddling me! I'm fine…No," said the doctor, raising his hand, "I do realize that I've got a nasty little cut, but we also need to press on before somebody, aside from Moran, notices that we've run off."

'_Somebody_?' thought Holm, '_Somebody' meaning Miss Morstan. Clearly Watson does not wish to fall into HER clutches again_.'

Captain Holmes heartily agreed with that sentiment.

"Let's just keep moving," added the doctor, struggling to stand.

"Fine," said Holmes, worry making his voice sharp. The captain reached out to support the doctor.

"I can walk…"

"You can_not_" stated the worried and frustrated buccaneer, tugging on the cherished, long, black plait, which hung down his back. "You _cannot_ walk on your own. Stop being so stubborn! Let me help you. Lean on me. That's an order, doctor!"

"You can't give me orders; we're on land," muttered the doctor under his breath, but he didn't pull away as the pirate wrapped his long arm around his waist.

Doctor Watson had spent most of his adult life landlocked first as a student reading medicine and then as an army surgeon. This meant that the good doctor had a sadly muddled view of maritime law, yet he regularly brought up his version of these laws.

Of course neither Captain Holmes nor any of his crew could understand why the doctor thought that pirates would follow the precepts of maritime law in the first place.

Aboard The Hound, everyone from the lowliest cabin boy to Captain Holmes simply humored their invaluable and beloved physician. Usually everyone just pretended to agree with Doctor Watson when he attempted to explain sea-law or his take on the seafarer's moral philosophy.

'_Watson is an idiot,_' thought the buccaneer, not for the first time. He pulled his idiot close, and kept his silence, as the idiot expounded on his rights under maritime law.

* * *

><p>"Halt, you two! Halt!" Shouted a soldier, who unfortunately, was more inquisitive than the regular night watch. "I don't know you two. What're you…"<p>

Holmes smiled broadly, his face shadowed in spite of a nearby lantern. "We're a bit late like, yewr 'onor, drawled the captain "My friend, Jackie 'ere? Woll, 'e 'ad a bit too much to drink, on account of 'is missus givin' 'im a son. 'Is missus wot lives in Charlestown and not ta other one."

"Yes, well, that's all well and good," said the redcoat dismissively, "but what are you doing still about? Are you both deaf? There's been an attack on the town, and you should be aboard your ship, and you are not."

The soldier was an idiot and pedantic, which was even worse, thought Holmes.

"Therefore," said the pedantic idiot, "I am placin' you both under…"

"Peter," Watson sang out, as he grinned foolishly and swayed back and forth, like a canvas torn from its clews.

Holmes hoped to hell that Watson was more alert than he appeared… and that he wouldn't exacerbate his leg wound…or give them away…or fall unconscious in spite of his standing orders not to faint.

"Peter? Who's this Peter? And what in the hell happened to yor face?" demanded the soldier, who moved in, eyeing the battered doctor, "Here, you been fightin'." The soldier appealed to Holmes. "Here, this man's been fightin'."

"Peter! We're here for the Blue Peter*! It waz flyin' jusssssssss this morning'!" said Watson explosively.

"Good lord, man," exclaimed the soldier. "Were you supposed to be on the Silver Nereid? She sailed afore noon." The soldier began to chuckle darkly. "_You_ two are stranded my friends, and_ that_ means you're fair game. There's a bounty for able-bodied seamen, as all good tars know. Come now, me hearties, it'll go easier on you, if you come with me peaceful like…"

Holmes chopped his hand down onto the man's neck.

"It would be grossly inappropriate for me or my friend to be pressed* into service aboard one of His Majesty's ships," said captain Holmes, who covered the soldier's mouth until he passed out. He dropped the heavy lout to the ground.

"What," gasped Watson, "What the hell took you so long? …I thought I was going to have to take him out m'self."

"I was waiting for the right moment, and I would advise you in future, not to advertise yourself as available for the press gangs, as I do not relish having to come after you should you be taken up, Doctor," said Holmes sternly, using the soldier's belt to restrain him, "Not that I would ever question _your_ loyalty, doctor. On another note, I seriously doubt whether you are capable of 'taking out' anyone just now."

Watson scowled but could no longer deny this rather obvious fact, since he was hard pressed to remain standing even with the aid of a cane.

Holmes dragged the fallen redcoat into the shadows. Then he pulled his friend's arm over his shoulder, wrapped his own arm around the doctor's waist and restarted their shambling progress toward the deserted fishing dock. They quickly passed under the oil lamp, which lit up the sign for Moffat's Victualing and Dry Goods, and which had also illuminated their encounter with the pedantic soldier.

"Hey! Hey! Wat's goin' on down there?" an observant redcoat from the top of the street. He began to lumbered towards them slowly. Then two more lumbering redcoats joined the first.

"Run,Watson," said the buccaneer.

They scurried toward the fishing boats, as fast as Watson could hobble with his captain's support.

Another soldier suddenly stepped out of the shadows, with his gun half raised. Holmes swung the doctor into the wall of a warehouse and out of harms way, then he lunged forward, driving his fist into the unprepared redcoat's face.

The soldier raised a hand to his face, and Holmes wrenched the musket out of his other hand. The soldier, no more than a boy, fled back into the warren of warehouses and unused dry-docks.

The buccaneer shoved the musket into Watson's hands, forcing him to drop his cane. Then Holmes used both his arms to all but carry his doctor to safety.

"It's…no use. You should leave me, Capt'in," gasped Watson. "Get yourself back to The Hound and…

"Don't be an idiot," snapped Holmes.

Gunfire erupted behind them.

"You'll…never make it to the boats…not with me," cried Watson.

"Do stop repeating…this drivel…" said Holmes panting heavily. "We only… have to make it… as far as that crane,"

"Crane?" said Watson, wrinkling his face. "That crane? But what good…"

"Don't argue… with your captain," said Holmes with a twisted grin, "Don't you know… it's mutiny?"

A musket ball hit the planking, not two feet from the pair of pirates; and splinters flew in all directions.

Watson did not continue arguing but instead concentrated on holding on to both the musket and his friend, until they ducked under the dubious cover of the wooden hoist.

"We stop here… Watson, for just a moment," said Holmes, leaning his doctor against the crane.

The captain grasped the musket and turned toward the oncoming soldiers, "I have only the one shot, no more cartridges… … must make it count." He muttered, raising the musket to his shoulder.

"Make it count? Then givethat gun to me," demanded Watson, reaching for the gun.

Holmes hesitated for a moment, then surrendered the gun. Watson _was_ a much better shot than the buccaneer, especially with a musket.

The acknowledged marksman took a moment to ensure that the gun was primed, even tamping down the cartridge again.

"Right," said Watson, turning and raising the musket to his shoulder. "Better brace me, Captain, " he added, as he wavered unsteadily on his bad leg.

The pirate captain stood behind his doctor, arms wrapped around his waist. "Lean all you like, Doctor, I have you," he said, bracing his leg behind Watson's good leg,

"I see them…There's…the three of 'em," said Watson slowly as he raised the musket.

"No, no, Watson! Not the bloody soldiers!" shouted Holmes. "Shoot the _lamp_, the lamp hanging over the wagon."

"The lamp? At Moffat's? I don't see…"

"You see but you do not observe. The lamp is …Can you just _trust_ me this time?" asked Holmes.

"Right. Yes…" Watson took a breath and leaned his weight against the buccaneer. His leg was weak, but his arms were rock steady. He sighted down the barrel…and fired. The recoil would have knocked the doctor over, if his captain hadn't held on to him so tight.

The oil lamp must have been struck. It wobbled; it slowly tipped over, falling into a wagonload of hay.

Flames burst out instantly, threatening Moffat's Establishment, '_which would be no great loss,'_ thought Holmes, '_as Moffat's quality has suffered of late'. _He watched as two of the soldiers stopped, staring stupidly at the conflagration; perhaps, they would even try to put it out.

Watson, finally realizing that this was a diversion, grinned wildly at the buccaneer.

The third redcoat was more tenacious than the others. He continued advancing towards Holmes and Watson, but he moved slowly, keeping under cover, clearly fearing more musket fire from the two escapees.

"Well done!" said Holmes, dragging his surgeon turned sniper over to a piling and setting him against it. "Capital job! As ever, you astound me with your remarkable marksmanship. Now, take this coat off…"

"No, I don't want to," said Watson, he pulled away as Holmes tugged the coat off his shoulders. "Holmes, stop. I just got warm..."

"John Watson, there isn't time! Must I give yet another order or will you just trust me? Take off that coat!"

"FIne. Fine. Certainly, or do I have to say aye, aye Captain, Sir?" asked Watson, as the coat was torn off and tossed aside. Watson immediately began shivering and hugged his arms to his chest, generally looking quite miserable.

"Do shut up, Watson," suggested Holmes, forcing himself to ignore his friends suffering, "We are nearly there."

"Where?" asked the doctor, confusion warring with misery on his expressive face.

The buccaneer did not answer. He ran back to the crane, his head tilting to one side, as his sharp eyes studied the levers and lines.

Nodding to himself, Sherlock Holmes scanned the harbor, choosing a target.

He whipped his stern glance back toward the doctor, who was capable of pulling self-sacrificing stunts at the most inopportune times.

"Do not move an inch, Watson!" ordered the pirate captain pointing his long finger at the tawny-headed man, just to be sure. "Not an inch! That's an order!"

Watson's jaw jutted stubbornly, but he did not move.

Then Holmes adjusted a lever…then he knocked a chock free…then he pulled another lever. The cable and its hook dropped from the boom, hitting the elevated pier with a loud crack.

Holmes raised yet another lever, then shouted, "Stand ready, Watson!"

The doctor looked around uncertainly, his arms dropping to his sides. "What?"

The buccaneer grasped the cable with both hands and charged toward the doctor.

"Grab on to me, and never let go!" shouted Holmes.

Wide-eyed, and mouth agape, Watson hugged the pirate around his waist as they crashed together.

"Christ!" gasped the physician, as the buccaneer's momentum carried them both over the lower docks. The cable played out, casting them out over the water studded with boats and skiffs.

"Never let go, John!" roared Holmes. Having reached his goal, he let go the cable and clutched his friend's shoulders. Together, they plummeted straight down into the waiting black waters of the bay.

* * *

><p><strong>AN** There are one or two chapters left in the rest of this story.

**Thank you** for following and favoriting and for reviewing the Rest of the Story.

Won't you consider reviewing this chapter?

* * *

><p><span><strong>Nautical Jargon<strong>: explained by the noted expert on maritime affairs, Doctor John Watson, and edited by an anonymous seaman with asides.**

*'Canvass torn from its clews'- a loose sail flapping in the wind. (The way some men's tongues flap when they imbibe to much rum)**

* The Blue Peter-a blue flag with a white center. It signals that a ship is ready to sail and that all her crew and passengers should be on board or risk getting left behind. (Sadly certain physicians have been known to ignore the Blue Peter causing ships to miss their tide)**

*Press Gangs-In the 18th and 19th centuries, the British Royal Navy conscripted sailers by impressment. Able-bodied sailors were essentially kidnapped (legally) and forced to serve aboard Naval ships. While sailors (of any nationality) were the preferred targets, non-sailors were sometimes impressed, and prison convicts were also forced to serve aboard ship. Many sailors were required to sail the ships but the large numbers were especially needed to man and fire the cannons. Other countries also impressed sailors but not nearly as much as did the British Navy. Impressment was perfectly legal and considered necessary to maintain the British Navy, which in turn defended Britain and her maritime interests. (This section is too faulty to be edited. The noted expert's explanation will have to do. The noted expert should confine himself to medical matters.)** (Some seamen are unable to appreciate the layman's point of view and insist on using jargon and whatnot, which is best left aboard ship.)* (By laymen, our noted expert probably means lubber)** (Don't tell me what I mean. Go and edit your diary.)* (He means log)** (I hate you.)* (No, you don't)** (No I don't. But I should.)*


	3. Chapter 3

Rated M for non-graphic violence and swearing.

(I apologize for errors. Having no beta, I gratefully rely on readers to point out my mistakes, which I promise to fix.) :D

* * *

><p><strong>The Rest of the Story Chapter 3<strong>

Holmes kicked desperately but the water's oily black surface remained just out of reach, and the heavy weight clinging to his waist dragged him down, down, down.

The buccaneer fought against his reflexes, which screamed at him, demanding that he free himself from his burden. They demanded that he save himself, shove the helpless doctor off, leaving Watson to his watery fate.

No! Instincts be _damned_. Holmes would rather die than lose this burden. So he kicked and stroked. And just as he felt as though his lungs would explode, he broached the surface.

Air, blessed air filled his lungs as he choked and gulped it down in great draughts.

Watson's tight hold around his waist began to slacken. That was not allowed.

"No!" He gasped into the dark.

_'No! He promised. He promised never to let go.'_

'_Idiot,' replied_ a mind-palace Mycroft, sitting in judgment under his pretentious powdered wig. _'You're a fool. Of course he's letting go; he is drowning_.'

Captain Holmes reached for slack arms, which began to fight him weakly.

"Idiot!" gasped the pirate.

The captain ripped his arms free from Watson's faltering grasp. He found the doctor's unfashionably short wet hair, gripped it, and pulled his doctor's head up out of the water. Watson's haggard face surfaced, reflecting the moons pallid glow. For a terrifying moment, the blond didn't move or breathe, his lips looked a ghastly purple in the dim moonlight.

"John! John Watson!" gasped Holmes, shaking the almost limp man.

Then the doctor was coughing and gasping and ineffectually punching his rescuer.

"Watson? Stop it man!" the captain whispered sharply, holding his best, most loyal and rather violent friend by his hair with one hand, while blocking the doctor's blows with his other arm, all this while trying to keep them both above water with his frog-like kicks.

He finally gave his gasping, thrashing catch another firm shake to still him, while shouting. "Hold still!"

Watson's fists stopped flying about and went to his head where Holmes's hand still held tight to the too-short hair.

"Leave go…my hair...you bloody…pragmatical…"

"Shhh!" hissed Holmes.

Watson choked and gulped air and a few mouthfuls of the noisome harbor water, "ya...bloody arse! Le' go o' my hair," at least the doctor was almost whispering too now. "Why the hell… couldn't you warn me? Y'great bloody ...bloody hell!"

"Watson, calm down..."

"You calm down...ya bloody prick!" gasped the furious physician, who still thrashed too much. "And let go o' m,m hair! Bloody hell, Sher…C,cap'n. Bloody hell, no warning. Y'gave me no warning...again! You couldn't say...say...somethin' like..a,ahoy there m,mmatey...avast the b, bilge and scupper the c, cats. And be ready for k,keelhauling."

"No I could not," hissed the buccaneer, "no sailor worth his salt would say any of that." Holmes was elated that his doctor had survived and frustrated that the stubborn man was still struggling in his grasp and worried because the former soldier was shivering, and he was much, much too weak.

"Y,you p,p,prick," repeated Watson, somewhat less vehemently as he grew calmer, _'or weaker' _supplied mind palace Mycroft smugly. Mycroft said almost everything smugly.

"John Watson," growled the buccaneer. "Stop fighting me. I am trying to help."

"Then let go of ...m,me!"

"Don't be ridiculous. You can't swim," said the captain.

"Yes I c,c,can. You t,taught me last m,month."

"Bah! You could barely paddle."

"N, no, I can swim," insisted Watson.

"Curse you for a stubborn _fool_," snarled Holmes.

"C,curse _you_ f,f,for a,a,arrogant p,_prick_," sputtered the doctor.

The Scourge of the West Indies wanted to scream. If they were safely on The Hound, he probably would have. Instead he whispered. "Dammit, Watson, shut up and stop fighting me. And since we are clearly at sea, consider that an _order_."

Watson froze in mid-thrash, choked again and then went almost limp, overwhelmed by Holmes's strength, superior logic and the power of maritime law.

"Aye C,captain," Watson stuttered resentfully, as the captain loosened the smaller man's hair and wrapped an arm around the doctor's chest. "But we're not f,f,finished with th,this, C,cap'n," muttered the doctor ominously. "N,no…n,not f,finished... not b,b,by a long shot."

Sherlock Holmes ignored the dark, stuttered threats from his best, most loyal and certainly most stubborn friend. He concentrated on swimming towards the single-masted dinghy, which the buccaneer had targeted before leaping into the water.

As he approached the small boat, Holmes slowed, treading water, while ensuring that his friend could still breathe and curse as necessary. Watson at least had the presence-of-mind to curse in a quiet undertone that probably wouldn't carry over the water.

'_Unless he is becoming quiet, simply because he is finally succumbing his wounds and drowning',_ offered his ever helpful mind-palace brother.

The buccaneer held his obstinate doctor close and took another moment to scan his surroundings for imminent danger.

The harbor was quiet. He could hear water lapping at the boat and distant, dull clanging from a buoy.

The frigates seemed to be sleeping, which was possibly a ruse. Surely they hadn't lowered their guard so soon after that bombardment; then again, he knew both of the arrogant, over confidant captains, so perhaps the crews _had_ stood down already.

Glancing back to the town, there was no sign of pursuit. The small fire in front of Moffat's Victualing House was nearly out. A small crowd of soldiers and onlookers had gathered, hindering the efforts of the men fighting the fire.

Watson remained quiet but shivering in the buccaneer's grasp, and he glared between his captain and the star strewn sky with dark glittering eyes.

'_Maybe Mycroft was right,__ a quiet Watson might be a bad sign,_' thought Holmes.

Then it seemed he heard Mycroft's irritating drawl yet again '_Perhaps it would_ _be best to get the good doctor out of the water...before he succumbs to the cold and the damp.'_

'_Which in fact, is a sound suggestion,' _agreed the buccaneer silently. He hated agreeing with his brother, especially an imaginary one.

"Let's get you out of the water, doctor,' he murmured into Watson's ear.

The doctor spared him a scowl before glaring again at the heavens. The pirate grasped the side of the boat, and plucked his half-drowned surgeon part way out of the water.

"Hold on to the gunwale*!" he whispered harshly.

"The, the whale? W,wat ? Hold the w,what? Where?" stuttered the confused, shivering doctor.

"Just…just hang on to the boat, Watson," commanded Holmes, with just a hint of pleading in his hushed baritone.

Watson shook his head and hung grimly on to the side of the boat, looking dreadfully pale and as angry as a wet cat.

Holmes grinned at the sight but then promised, "We'll have you out momentarily, my dear doctor."

The nefarious Scourge of the West Indies, grasped the gunwale with both hands, and heaved himself into the boat.

The captain looked around and smiled again, pleased with his prize. The boat was old but sound, well founded and yet inconspicuous. He scrambled to a stand, supporting himself against the single spar*; he felt that their escape was all but ensured.

His elation was cut short, when a fierce dark man tackled him and began throttling him.

Before his assailant's rough, calloused hands got a firm grip, Holmes brought both of his fists down on the back of the man's neck, stunning him. The pirate slipped out from under his attacker. He heard Watson calling for him in a harsh whisper, but couldn't answer with more than grunted reassurance, as he grappled with the boat's owner.

_'Of course, the man may _not _be the owner. He might be the watchman,' _thought the pirate captain.

_'Which hardly matters, right now,' _spat the phantom Mycroft. _'Don't be a fool, Sherlock, take that man down, at once!'_

While Sherlock hated taking orders from his fat brother, Mycroft's demands were sound. The captain redoubled his efforts.

The owner (or watchman) cursed the buccaneer in a patois of French, English, plus an African dialect, which Holmes did not recognize. The boat rolled as they wrestled and as Watson tried, in vain, to board. The rocking boat caused Holmes's assailant to loose his balance. The older man flailed, cursed, and the lanky pirate threw the older man back against the gunwale.

Suddenly the dark skinned sailor cried out, raising his hands to his head.

Captain Holmes gasped and gaped in confusion at the groaning fisherman who lay draped over the gunwale.

The captain saw that two white hands had curled themselves into dreadlocks of the fisherman. The hands slowly tried to drag the hapless man backwards toward the sea, while an ersatz merman, cursed and sputtered.

"Don't t even th,think of moving, you b,bloody son of a p,p, pox-filled whore. If you sc,scream I'll g,gut ya!" threatened Watson, "D,don't even th, think about t,touchin my c,c,captain. You sodding godforsaken p,pig shite..."

"Save your breath, doctor," advised Holmes, with a gasp. "I'll have you out in a trice..."

"Oh, oh, oh a t,trice. And what the h, hell is a t,trice anyway?" growled the doctor angrily, before uttering more threats against the dinghy's owner.

Captain Holmes quickly stuffed a rag into the dark-skinned sailor's mouth. The buccaneer found some rope, binding the man's hands behind him. All the while Watson continued to hold the fisherman still by pulling on his dreadlocks.

"Let loose his hair, Watson," commanded Holmes.

As soon as the doctor let go the man's hair, the fisherman grunted and savagely kicked at his captor.

Holmes shoved the still kicking fisherman towards the bow of the little boat, and then dumped out a tackle-filled bucket, searching for a convincing weapon.

The buccaneer found a fillet-knife and immediately convinced the owner to subside into a sullen but motionless huddle in the bow.

'_The doughty fisherman is,_ a_lmost certainly _not_ a simple watchman but in fact the owner,' _thought Holmes_, 'given his determination to protect this not very valuable vessel.'_

Before mind palace Mycroft could utter a word, the buccaneer bent to haul his doctor on board.

The Captain held his dear friend close for only a moment, almost resting his head against the blond hair, which was plastered flat on John's Holmes said, "We mustn't lose a moment…"

The captain's utterance was cut off short, when the doctor seized the knife from him, and scuttled like a crab towards the prisoner.

The soggy doctor had apparently nominated himself acting Marine Sergeant in Charge of Prisoners, despite his shivering and evident pain.

"Well, are you g,going to s,sail this miserable garbage sc,scow out of here or not," snapped Doctor Watson. "Lower the halliards and snap the sheets!" ordered the doctor, who would never be sailor, try as he might.

Holmes began to smile, until he noticed the prisoner's dark face crinkle under his gag…almost as if he were laughing at Watson's lubberly jargon. Holmes could laugh at his friend and frequently did so. Strangers, however, did not have leave to laugh at John Watson. The buccaneer sent a warning glare towards the prisoner, who once more sank into passivity.

'What?" demanded the doctor glaring first at the fisherman and then at the pirate.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," murmured Captain Holmes. "I shall make sail, at once, so stay out of the way."

Watson's glare deepened, '_Offended, no doubt'_, thought Holmes. The thought of offending John Watson, or even worse hurting his _feelings, _was surprisingly unsettling.

"And," the pirate quickly added, "perhaps you would be good enough to stand guard, Doctor, just in case our hostage chooses to cause trouble."

_'There, now John will feel useful...' _thought the pirate.

Watson narrowed his eyes suspiciously, no doubt suspecting that his captain was manipulating him-again, _'which I am,' _thought Holmes.

Then the doctor's suspicious glance fell on the prisoner, The injured blond turned back to the fisherman, issuing dire warnings not to move or make a noise or even breathe wrong, and because he was a doctor, he would _know_ right away if the prisoner tried to breathe even a little funny. Watson muttered these admonitions in English interspersed with some very questionable and mostly unintelligible French. He punctuated his statements with his knife.

The hostage nodded as he watched the doctor's knife warily.

'_Probably understands English quite well. Might even be speak it. In any case, John's meaning is obvious."_

The buccaneer smirked in the thin moonlight; clearly his ploy was a success. Watson would be occupied guarding the bound hostage (who was no threat at all); Watson would remaining safely out of the way, venting his ire (_borne of pain and fear and stress)_ at the prisoner and not the pirate.

With the hostage and the doctor thus entertained, the buccaneer lost no more time preparing to sail. He checked the lines and mainsail. Glanced at the tide and the moon. He noted the fine steady off shore breeze; all was ready.

Captain Holmes cut the anchor line, which the hostage disliked. However, doctor's glare and his knife kept the fisherman quiet.

Holmes used a long, hand-carved paddle to quietly propel the boat out into the harbor, his arm and chest muscles straining under his damp shirt. And still no one seemed aware of their escape. He flashed a victorious grin at his doctor, but was dismayed to see the blond hunched and trembling in the bow, although still brandishing the knife, whenever the fisherman breathed funny.

"My dear Doctor, this will never do," said Holmes, He tried to sound lightly unconcerned, as he paddled. "I fear you will come down with a fever, Watson. We must find you a blanket..."

"I'm…f,fine," lied the physician. Even the fisherman rolled his eyes at this blatant falsehood. Then, the prisoner ignored his hostile guard with his fillet knife and pointed with his chin towards the heap of nets.

The prisoner waggled his brows at the pirate captain, and nodded again at the nets.

"K,keep still, you scurvy d,d,dog," ordered Watson.

"Leave him be, Watson," said Holmes. "I believe he's trying to help."

"Trying to help? Leave him b,be?" exclaimed the doctor. "When he t,tried to k,kill you!".

"Silence on deck, doctor!" ordered Holmes, in a whisper. Watson's eyes widened and then narrowed in resentment, but his mouth stayed firmly shut.

Holmes gave thanks to the Codes of Maritime Law, as he dropped the paddle to begin digging amongst the nets.

"We've not escaped yet, doctor," said the buccaneer, 'so you must remain very quiet. You've no idea how very well sound travels over water." The pirate captain soon found an old, tattered coat under the nets. It was large and shapeless and would undoubtedly dwarf the short surgeon. Under the coat was a bundle of cloth, which might once have been a blanket. Both smelled disagreeably of fish, but were in fact nearly dry.

There was no time for another argument; the captain immediately utilized maritime law to his advantage, ordering the injured doctor to wear both the coat and the blanket until further notice.

Watson obeyed but muttered peevishly (yet quietly) against perfidious pirates who connived with strange fisherman, pirates who misconstrued Maritime law to their own advantage, pirates who liked to give orders for the sake of giving orders-mere martinets, dictators and so on.

Nonetheless, Watson re-did the prisoners gag, so that the man would be able to breathe more easily, belying his fearsome threats. Finally the doctor settled down in the scuppers wearing the both the ratty coat and the torn blanket, his injured leg stuck straight out in front of him. He kept the knife visible and ready… just in case.

The buccaneer had rowed the dinghy until it was clear of the fishing boats riding at anchor. Now he dropped the main sail and almost at once, the canvass caught the wind, driving the dinghy toward the harbor mouth.

After casting a weather eye on the slumbering frigates, Captain Holmes turned his attention toward their hostage. Speaking the patois like a native, Holmes offered the owner of the boat a generous reward for the use of his boat, payable only after they rendezvoused with The Hound, (naturellement)*. His voice dripping with apology, the pirate also pointed that neither bullets nor cannon balls could discriminate between pirates and their prisoners pirate, (désolé), so it would be in the best interests of the fisherman, to avoid exciting the interest of the frigates. (Oui?)

The dinghy's owner, not one to miss an opportunity for reward-especially when he had no choice, nodded vigorously.

Sherlock Holmes checked the sail again. He checked the frigates. He sighed, their escape was almost assured, and without further bloodshed (_hopefully_). Watson seemed more comfortable; at least he wasn't shivering as hard. Indeed he appeared to be trying to communicate with the older, dark-skinned sailor using the doctor's broken French.

Things were going along swimmingly; then came the dreaded words from the nearest frigate, "Ahoy the boat."

They had been spotted.

Watson and the prisoner froze, staring at each other with wide eyes.

But the tall ships were not lined with marines bearing guns, so the escapees had not been identified (_probably_). The British look-out leaned negligently over the side, indicating that this was a routine query.

They could brazen this out…(_again, hopefully_).

Replying fluently in the local patois, Holmes claimed to be a poor fisherman seeking his livelihood on the uncertain seas.

The British tar muttered about, "eathens who couldn't speak a civ'lized tongue", he clearly understood nothing that the buccaneer said.

Holmes continued his act while the fisherman grinned behind his gag and while Watson rolled his eyes, both men showing how impressed they were...in very different ways. The pirate-turned-humble-fisherman complained that the earlier exchange of gunfire had probably chased all the best fish away. And now? What should he do now? What should he do with his nagging wife and his hungry children and no fish? So of course they had to leave the harbor early. Of course they had to go out to find the few fish remaining to them after the cannons had made so much noise and scared his livelihood away. Then too his partner had a new baby, a baby named Peter and what should he do…"

"Carry on! Carry on," shouted the frigate*, "And fer God's sake, shut yer gob, yer ignant forin'er!"

The dinghy sailed past the nearest frigate, Watson and Holmes waved earnestly, as Sherlock called out, 'God Bless' in the local version of French.

Muttering under his breath, Watson quietly commended the sailor to the water depths of Davy Jones's locker and that included his crewmates, captain, the governor and the governors friends-especially the governors friends.

Within minutes that seemed like an hour, the frigate's stern light began to shrink, yet not fast enough for the pirate captain. They were still much too close to the murderous long guns*.

The buccaneer tried to urge his boat to greater speed, attempting to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the dangerous frigates.

Time dragged on.

Six bells sounded from the farther ship, each bell echoed moments later from the nearer frigate. Six bells in the middle watch.

Watsons face, pale and drawn in the moonlight, scrunched as he tried to make out the time. The doctor still got confused with shipboard timekeeping.

"It is the middle watch," sighed Holmes softly, brushing the damp hair off his brow. "It is three in the morning, doctor."

"Ah, yes... I almost had it figured out m'self," lied Watson, "but...thank you." Holmes noticed that Watson's shivering was all but gone.

The Scourge of the West Indies relaxed infinitesimally. He turned to the where the swells sparkled in the moonlight, wishing that they were already out of the harbor's trap.

Soon.

He also wished that he knew who had betrayed him. He wished that he had his doctor safely aboard the Hound. He wished that his doctor had never been hurt. He reconsidered his rejection of religion and considered praying that his doctor would recover quickly and not…die. Because people did die of such wounds. People bled too much sometimes. And all too often such wounds became infected, or people developed fevers or…

"Almost out of the harbor," said the buccaneer, mostly to reassure himself. "Then it'll be only a matter of hours before we reach the Hound." He looked over at their hostage. "Once we're in the open water, we can remove your gag, Alphonse. And we can discuss your payment."

The fisherman nodded resignedly. He might even have ventured another smile behind that gag at the mention of payment. Everyone responded to a good bribe, thought the cynical pirate...everyone except Doctor John Watson, of course.

His doctor who had not and would not betray him, no matter what.

The old boat began to jump and pitch as she left the harbor. He held the tiller steady and she responded to his touch well. She was very fast, for her kind. She was truly a joy to sail, especially after spending the last week ashore.

The cool sea breeze rejuvenated the buccaneer, blowing away some of his fears and frustrations. His disappointments, the mission had failed and he hated failure. He heard once more the siren's song in the water running under the keel. He could nearly hear an answering song, composing in his mind; he would have to try to write it down, when they got back to the ship.

The spray hit his face, and he smiled at the kiss from his lady mistress, the Sea. He smiled at her salty benediction and reveled in the joy at his homecoming. He was back on the water where he belonged.

He shared his grin with his doctor and shipmate. Watson gamely smiled back, even as his fists knotted in the ragged blanket. The knife lay at the doctor's side, forgotten.

Oh. This is not good. The doctor had laid down his weapon? This is bad. Watson must be in a very bad way, if he laid down his knife. Sherlock wished yet again that they were back on his ship, where John could be treated and cared for.

Watson's smile had been forced. His eyes were pinched, he slumped rather than sat against the gunwale, he trembled intermittently. Clearly he suffered and clearly he was determined not to make complaint.

Sherlock's watery mistress and his violin compostion were instantly forgotten in his concern for the man, who in the past year had become the captain's guiding light.

The sea was as nothing, without his best and most faithful companion at his side.

"John Watson, I think we can leave Alphonse to his own devices," said the pirate captain.

"Who? No, how? How can you possibly know his name is Alphonse?" demanded the doctor, sitting up a bit. "I haven't heard him mention his name a single time, not even once."

"Doctor, the language Alphonse speaks is most assuredly not French, as attested to by the outrage now on his face. Clearly, as you earlier deduced, Alphonse does understand English, and so now he will understand me when I point out that while you do command a smattering of Latin…

"A smattering?" said Watson indignantly. "I was at the top of my class... "

"Yes, a class populated by the sons of farmers and tradesman…"

"You pretentious toff! Just because you went to Oxford…"

"Cambridge, actually," said Sherlock.

"Bloody hell, even if you attended both, it doesn't give you the right to swan about the oceans, thinking you're better than everyone else!" snapped the doctor, who shifted as the boat rolled on the swell. Watson gasped again, clutching at his leg and biting his lip and so ending his tirade.

Holmes almost forgot what they were talking about, as he bit his own lip. Then he remembered; he was trying to distract Watson (and himself) from this horrid situation.

"My intention Doctor, was to inform Alphonse that you meant no insult when you stated that he spoke French," said the somewhat subdued detective, "As to his name, surely you know my methods by now. I merely observed. I learned his name because it was writ plain for all to see!"

The doctor looked around the dinghy. The blond briefly locked eyes with the fisherman, who shrugged.

"Well, I don't see it!" said the exasperated doctor.

"As always, you see, but you do not observe."

"Well there's no writing here at all!" exclaimed the physician.

"True, try earlier…"

"Bah! You're speaking in riddles again, and I don't understand and I won't understand and I don't _want _to understand." John Watson crossed his hands over his breast and fumed in stubborn silence.

Holmes sat at the tiller, carefully keeping his face blank and his back straight. Watson didn't want to understand? But he _always_ wanted to understand Holmes; he _always _wanted to hear his captain's deductions and observations. _Always._

This rejection was a slap in the face

'_And this is why I have always advised you not to form attachments, Sherlock," _said the phantom Mycroft who haunted Sherlock's mind palace no matter how often the captain chased him out. _'Attachments lead to sentiments and sentiments lead to distractions and pain. Sentiment is found on the losing side.'_

"Shut up, Mycroft," muttered the Scourge of the West Indies.

"What? What was that?" asked the doctor, briefly lifting his head, his eyes looked like dark holes in his pale, lined face.

"Nothing important. Nothing _you'd_ want to understand," snapped Holmes.

"Fine," snapped John Watson, dropping his head back against the gunwale with a loud bang, which had to hurt.

Watson stared at the sky, yet didn't seem to be tracking the stars and constellations, as was his wont. He just lay there shuddering occasionally and gripping the tattered grey blanket, which he clutched to his chest, even though he had fought against its use…

'_Ohhh…Stupid, I'm so stupid," _thought Sherlock.

'_Yes, well we both thought you were stupid," _said the supercilious mind-palace Mycroft. _ 'Of course we learned otherwise when we met other children. Then we found out that the rest of the world was even stupider than you," _mind-palace Mycroft looked surprised and even scandalized at the memory.

"_I see it now," _hissed Sherlock, inside the marble-lined main hall of his mind palace. '_It's obvious, John…'_

'_John? You call him, John?' _asked Mycroft with an elegantly arched brow.

'_This is my mind palace. I will call him whatever I choose to call him. Now, shut up, I'm thinking!' _thought Sherlock.

"_John is sick and injured and in pain, so much, so obvious. But this is also why he answers so sharply. This is why he is uninterested. It is a temporary condition which will resolve with proper treatment,' _thought the captain, refusing to entertain any concept, other than the complete recovery of his friend. _'He needs his wound cleaned, he needs clean dry clothes, he needs rest and proper nursing and some laudanum*.…It is fortunate that I found his secret supply of laudanum hidden in his portable soup*. It will save time."_

"In the meantime," muttered the captain. He pushed at the locks hanging over his forehead and tucked away the wisps of dark hair, which had escaped his plait, "We need to get you back to the ship," said the buccaneer out loud.

"Now what are you on about?" asked the querulous doctor.

"You're leg pains you greatly and already you begin to run a fever," deduced the observant buccaneer.

"No. I'm fine..."

"Oh, indeed? Your leg has been sliced open, you've lost a great deal of blood, and then you were dunked in the harbor, thus acquiring a chill. You are fine, forsooth!" said Captain Holmes. "Never mind, we both know that I'm right, but…"

He was interrupted by the faint sound of a drumbeat, carrying over the water.

"Ah," said Watson, reviving a bit with this new threat. "They are beating to quarters*."

The doctor struggled to stand on one leg, while holding onto the mast.

"Sit down, doctor!" snapped the pirate.

"No. I won't. I want to see," muttered Watson.

"You'll fall down or, even worse, fall into the water," said Holmes. "Or even overturn the boat. I insist that you sit down at once."

"They are lowering a boat…two boats," said John Watson, who was apparently feeling mutinous.

"I order you to sit down."

"Make me," muttered the doctor under his breath, in clear defiance of maritime law. Then he added, "It's difficult to make out…but I believe…yes, they are running out the guns. They have figured out who we are."

"Obviously," snapped the pirate. "You can stop with your pointless mutiny and sit here at the tiller in moderate comfort and still keep an eye on the frigates."

"Well, only I thought you _might_ be concerned if fire cannon at us!" said the doctor.

"Bah!" scoffed the buccaneer. "Given that only hours ago, they couldn't hit a ship many times larger than us, a ship which signaled its location every time it fired, I doubt we are in much danger."

"But we are in _some _danger."

"Which you love, doctor. Don't deny it."

"I will deny it. Now I am not shy. I will not _run_ from danger if I am needed, but I cannot say that I look forward to being the helpless target of a broad side."

"I doubt they will waste their powder and balls in a broadside against a dinghy."

"You and your doubts," muttered Watson. "I think they'll waste powder eagerly, it they think they can hit you."

"There are two boats in the water," announced the doctor. "And they begin to row."

"I can see this for myself..."

The unsteady doctor mis-stepped on the roll, and barely caught himself by clinging to the lines.

"Doctor Watson, I order you to sit down before you tangle the lines, strangle yourself or drop yourself into the ocean yet again."

There was a flash from the frigate. The retort of canon fire sounded.

"They are trying their range, and they are nowhere near us," murmured the captain. "I doubt that they even see us."

The doctor's brow furrowed in confused concern as he looked at the now distant frigate, which fired another shot and then at the puzzle of ropes leading up to the sail. He carefully released the lines and grasped the mast again.

"You know…" ventured the doctor, "you are the one who dropped us into the ocean this time, Holmes…"

"I was referring to the _last_ time you fell out of a boat, off the coast of Puerto Rico, all because you stood up …"

"And that was your fault too, Holmes," argued Watson. Just then the boat rolled heavily, Watson stumbled, but was caught by the captain who had anticipated this event.

The small boat veered with no hand at the tiller. The prisoner complained loudly behind his gag. Sherlock Holmes dragged his best most loyal and stubborn friend over to the stern seat and shoved him down, none too gently.

Watson groaned in pain, gripping the edge of the seat, while Holmes grappled with the tiller setting the dinghy back on course.

"You _will _sit," bellowed the buccaneer. "And if you attempt to move from that seat, doctor, I will not hesitate to bind you with a rope."

The doctor, who had risen to better see the frigates and the two longboats, dropped back down next to the pirate captain. He bit his lip. He pursed his mouth and then rubbed at his lips. Another cannon fired. Then another and another in a rolling broadside that peppered the harbor mouth with chain.

Watson's lips pressed together, thinning his lips to mere lines. He decided not to argue, perhaps in deference to maritime law or the seriousness of their situation. "Those were not cannon balls."

"Brilliant observation, doctor," said Holmes with sarcasm. "They are firing chain, a better choice. A better chance to hit us. There is at least one officer aboard with half a brain."

"Their aim improves," observed Watson.

"They only have time for one more broadside, which will waste a deal of powder," said Holmes, "And then we shall have sailed round the headland, which will conceal us from view.

"The rowboats…erm, the longboats will follow us."

"They will never catch La fille d'Alphonse without they have sails," said the buccaneer, watching the sky flash white followed by the thunder of another broadside. The spray of the nearest fall was still a distance away.

Then the frigates and the town were lost from view as La fille d'Alphonse rounded the headland, heading up the coast toward their rendezvous with the hound.

"The boat, the boat is La fille d'Alphonse," said Watson, grinning his usual I-am-so-impressed-with-your-skills-Captain grin. "That's how you know his name."

"Hold the tiller Watson," said Captain Holmes, who was secretly pleased with John's admiration, "while I remove the gag from Alphonse. Do not stray from our course by so much as an inch; there are reefs in these waters you know."

Watson clung grimly to the tiller, probably recalling the last time Holmes allowed him to pilot. It had not ended well.

Having released the prisoner's gag, Holmes returned to the stern, bringing with him the grimy blanket, which he settle over his doctor's lap.

"Well done, doctor. You held our course…"

"I only held the tiller for four minutes," scoffed Watson. "Just because I have a little scratch on my leg, doesn't mean you need to patronize me nor mother hen me nor…"

"You will make me your entire family, Watson."

The blond blinked in confusion.

"Patronize, eh? And mother hen?" suggested the smug pirate.

"That's ridiculous," complained the doctor, whose face struggled not to smile.

They sailed in silence for several minutes, before the doctor said, "And are you not worried that the frigates will give chase?"

"I do not think that they will, unless the governor, or who ever pulls the governor's strings, has some control over the ships captains," said Holmes. "After all their orders come from the Admiralty, not the wretched governor, nor yet a one of the governor's advisors...not even a certain blond, American adventuress."

The doctor hummed his response. They were all silent once more, aside from the hostage who wished to know if he would still be receiving a reward. The captain assured Alphonse that he would indeed receive twelve pieces of gold and thirty of silver. Alphonse subsided content.

"I do not think that the recent near catastrophe is the fault of Morstan. At least not solely her fault. I fear that there is someone new in these waters, so to speak," said Holmes eventually. "Someone who was able to predict my actions, probably by watching you court that Morstan woman. It would seem that you are known to be a member of my crew; you shall have to be more careful in port, Doctor. I surmise that this person controls much of the criminal activity in this part of the Caribbean. He is someone who, to change metaphors, is like a spider, pulling strings and controlling the activities of many government officials and criminal kingpins. It is someone new, which makes it interesting. Someone who seems to be challenging me personally, which is exciting," Holmes's voice fell. "Nonetheless, he…or she made a mistake when they targeted you, my closest and most loyal friend, whose faithfulness has never once been questioned. What do you say to that, doctor?"

Watson snored softly in response.

"You will be fine, doctor," murmured the buccaneer, reassuring himself again. "We shall have you back on board the Hound by daybreak. You shall be fine; you must be fine. I can tolerate no other outcome."

Holmes moved, holding the tiller with his right hand, and sliding his left arm around the his sleeping doctor.

John Watson slumped against the shoulder of his captain and friend, and La fille d'Alphonse sailed into the dark in search of a Hound.

* * *

><p><strong>AN **I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. I keep getting distracted by my other stories such as Many Firsts, which is now done and no longer distracting me. Sort of.

I thank everyone who read, followed or reviewed this work. THANK YOU! **:D :D :D**

***Certain Nautical Terms**

gunwale-the side of the boat

spar- any length of wood including the masts and the beams which carried sails

shouted the frigate -meaning the spokesman (or look-out on deck)

long guns=cannon

laudanum-a liquid medication made with liquor and opium, used for pain relief. Like morphine, it gave a person feelings of euphoria. It was highly addictive, which is why Watson chose to hide it in the portable soup

portable soup-dehydated beef broth, akin to bouillon cubes. And used the same way to make broth for soups. The doctor would have some stored for his patients.

beating to quarters-the call to battle stations. A drummer (often a marine) would drum to the beat of Heart of Oak. All sailors would rush to their stations, most of them manning the cannon.

Ritual Disclaimer- I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK, or the characters created by that show.


End file.
